by Alex Irvine
So, too, was Magneto himself, of course. He had not realized his loneliness. He had initiated the skirmish with the heroes in an attempt to keep them out of his way—but instead, Battleworld had presented him with an unforeseen opportunity. He realized now that his sudden decision to capture Wasp had been more wish-fulfillment than strategic abduction. One of the things he wished was a companion, and Battleworld, knowing his desires more keenly than himself, had given him the chance to acquire one. She had given him a signal, he was certain of that. When the others were turning on him, Janet Van Dyne had stepped in and defused the tension. Perhaps Battleworld had been speaking through her, or perhaps it was Battleworld that had attuned him to what she was saying.
In either case, now that he had watched the storm for some time, he supposed he had better attend to her.
As he prepared, Magneto devoted a small portion of his powers to gently levitating the metal sphere close to his quarters. When it was near enough that Janet Van Dyne would be able to find her way without taking a wrong turn, Magneto gave the sphere a little twist with his mind. He heard the clanging and clattering as it fell to pieces in the corridor outside. Better to give her a moment to gather herself rather than dumping her on the floor in his room.
A short time later, Miss Van Dyne appeared in his doorway, having resumed her normal size. “Ah! Good evening,” he said. He had chosen to meet her while reclining, with his helmet off and a drink in his hand. The removal of the helmet, which protected him from telepathic and psionic attacks, was a security risk—but not a large one. Magneto had noted the absence of any X-Men in the response to his gambit. From this, he deduced that they were occupied with issues of their own.
He had not completely thrown security to the winds, however, as he informed Miss Van Dyne upon her entry. “Do you prefer to be called Wasp?” he asked. “If so, kindly do not attempt to sting me. You will find my person is magnetically shielded, and your stingers’ energy will be dissipated with no harm to either of us.”
“I don’t care what you call me,” she said. “And if you think I have to sting you directly to hurt you, you haven’t been paying attention.”
For emphasis, she blasted his drink out of his hand. “I can bring this whole room down on your head if I want to.”
“That would make us both quite uncomfortable, given the current weather situation,” Magneto said. As if to confirm this, a bolt of lightning the width of an airliner’s wingspan struck outside. “Since neither of us can leave, I suggest a truce,” he said. “I would like to talk. That is why I brought you here.”
“Yeah? You have a pretty pushy way of arranging a conversation,” Wasp said. “But all right. We’re here, and you’re right. We can’t go anywhere. Talk.”
Magneto nodded. “First, I apologize for the method of your conveyance here. I wished you neither harm nor humiliation; if I caused either, it is to my sorrow. You are obviously a woman of intelligence and understanding—as well as great beauty—and I am not the monster you seem to think I am. Which is precisely what I wish to discuss.”
“My intelligence and beauty, or you not being a murderer?” she said. He could tell her combativeness was genuine, but he also thought he detected a note of rhetorical jousting.
Good, he thought. “Why, both.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve had a lot of men—and no few women—put the moves on me. But this is the strangest first date I’ve ever been on. Period.”
“So you call it a date,” he said. He gestured at a table on the far side of the room, where he had placed an open bottle of wine and an empty glass. She frowned at him. But after a moment, she shrugged and poured herself a glass.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not? You went to all the trouble to bring me here. Least I can do is have a drink before I inevitably disappoint you.”
“Superb,” Magneto said. “A drink, and conversation. Inevitable disappointment, however, I think is unlikely. Battleworld seems constructed along quite opposite lines.”
He smiled at her, and she smiled back; for the moment, that was enough.
FOURTEEN
DOOM fixed the coordinates in his armor’s onboard system and took off, having already learned to navigate by the landmarks and magnetic signatures of Battleworld’s surface. The storm hindered his progress, but his destination was many miles distant. The storm would not affect him there. In his initial reconnaissance of Battleworld, following his ill-fated attempt to breach the Beyonder’s barrier, Doom had observed something interesting—something familiar—and the base’s strange technology had all but confirmed his suspicions. He alit on a street of three- and four-story buildings and surveyed his surroundings. His hypothesis was correct: Wedged into the crust of Battleworld between a stinking swamp and the far arc of the volcanic range that extended for thousands of miles across the planet’s surface was a fair portion of an Earth city.
Doom did not fully recognize the place at first. He had to match the images of its tallest buildings to databases carried in his armor’s computer system. Interesting, he thought. It was not London or Tokyo, Lagos or Rio or New York. It was Denver, Colorado.
The Beyonder had made unusual choices.
*
After a few blocks, the squat apartment buildings gave way to a more urban setting, with taller structures more densely packed. The citizens of Denver appeared to be coping with their wrenching dislocation as well as any ordinary person could have. They cooked meals on gas grills, walked the streets, and attempted to shore up their perimeter defenses against the fauna inhabiting the landscapes where the streets of Denver ended and the multifarious chaos of Battleworld began. Doom had chosen to alter his appearance temporarily, using a holographic projector in his armor to present himself as he would look without it—and without the scarring on his face. He loathed such illusions, but his goals would be more easily achieved if he could make social contact without his true identity being revealed at first.
Part of Doom’s errand here was simple reconnaissance. The more he understood about how Battleworld was constructed, the more insight he might gain into the Beyonder’s methods—and thereby his goals. In Doom’s experience, once you knew what someone wanted— and why—it was child’s play to turn their plans against them.
But he had come for another reason as well: He was looking for human, or at least humanoid, specimens to take part in an experimental endeavor. He had found a great deal of equipment in the installation he called Doombase. Some of it remained inscrutable to him, but some had yielded their secrets. One item in particular held his interest. Doom believed that he could use it to create powers in select human beings who had a certain bent toward possibility. Toward, perhaps, desire. Thus his interest in the human city, Denver.
Now, he thought. There are perhaps five thousand people present in this area. Perhaps more? Do I take a few by force?
This seemed unnecessary. It would be more fitting to find a few likely candidates and make them a simple offer: Do as I wish, and you will have power beyond your wildest imaginings.
It was the same appeal the Beyonder had made to Doom and the others brought from Earth. The difference was, Doom knew exactly how he would follow through. And when he had, he would be that much closer to claiming a prize that the Beyonder did not know he— it—had offered.
Around him he felt the essence of Battleworld shift. He became more conscious of some of the people nearby, and less conscious of others. Certain faces stood out, certain voices were clearer. He felt inclinations to follow a specific course along the open area signs designated the 16th Street Mall. Behind his mask, Doom smiled. This was how the Beyonder—or perhaps Battleworld itself?—expressed approval. Yes. Doom was not an unconscious participant; he let Battleworld lead him. He would address himself to likely candidates and let their own desires guide them to fulfill his.
He was drawn to a pair of young women making their way through the skyscrapers and chaos. Trying to figure out how to survive in this new land, many of D
enver’s citizens had armed themselves, presumably against incursions of beasts from the adjoining swamp. Others had organized into groups to handle the distribution of resources. He saw police officers, firefighters, and less formal bands of what he assumed were citizen militias. What he did not see was overt violence, or signs that large-scale rioting had occurred. The people seemed largely peaceful—was that an effect of Battleworld, as well? A street preacher shouted a few blocks away, offering his peculiar notions about the cause of the predicament in which Denver found itself.
Doom considered this. He, too, would have found himself scrambling to understand if he had not been made aware of the Beyonder. For a time.
As it was, Doom understood all. He proceeded methodically in his plan.
And the next step would involve these two women.
“Ladies,” he said. They looked up as he uncloaked himself, revealing his true aspect. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Victor von Doom—sovereign of Latveria, scientist, and…diplomat. May I have a word?”
He was testing the guidance of Battleworld here. Most ordinary people would have leaped out of their chairs and run shrieking at the sight of the Fantastic Four’s armor-clad arch nemesis. These two, however, regarded him with interest—not fear. Marvelous, Doom thought. I am working in cooperation with the consciousness animating Battleworld. This must surely mean success.
“A word about what?” one of them asked. They were an unusual pair. The one who had spoken was tall but overweight, hunched over self-consciously. The other was small and thin, and looked to Doom’s eye like she had not had regular exercise in some time.
“You are aware that we are…displaced from our previous environment,” Doom said.
“You can say that again,” the small blonde one said. “You don’t seem too worried about it, though.”
“That is because I have a plan. It requires assistance.”
“Does it, now?” the muscular brunette prompted.
Doom nodded. “I would not say too much here. My reputation is somewhat…checkered, shall we say. Due to poor publicity and media bias.”
“I know how that can be,” the blonde said. She extended her hand. Doom shook, careful not to engage the servomotors in his gauntlet that could crush her hand to paste. “Mary MacPherran, but you can call me Skeeter. That’s um…some glove you’ve got there.”
“It is of my own design,” Doom said. He bowed slightly and then turned to the other woman. “Victor von Doom,” he said, taking her hand as well.
“Marsha Rosenberg,” she said.
Doom smiled at them and pressed her hand gently. He knew his appearance often had an unnerving effect on people due to a natural fear of advanced technology and power—and perhaps, of those who hide their faces—but Misses MacPherran and Rosenberg did not seem discomfited in the least.
“Marsha,” he said. “Skeeter. I have a proposal for you. It involves some slight risk—but certainly no more than you already experience in this place, surrounded by the deadly variety of organisms that roam this world.”
“Sales pitch,” Skeeter said and rolled her eyes.
“Indeed,” Doom said. “I bring to you a proposal. And like all good deals, this one benefits us both. I have need of more people to execute a plan that will return us all to our home world, and situate us better than when we left.”
Whether this was true, Doom did not know. He anticipated that the Beyonder would follow through on his promise—but he, Doom, could not predict how his whims would change when he gained control of the Beyonder’s abilities and became omnipotent. Even so, it made for a compelling narrative.
“For you,” he went on, seeing that he had their attention, “the benefits present opportunity. Would you wish to get home? Would you wish to be part of the grand mission that will open the way for us to do so? Here is a way to unlock that door…which also leads to a destiny you have never imagined.”
At first they were astonished. Then they were skeptical. Then they were intrigued—and that was when Doom knew he had them.
FIFTEEN
INSIDE the heroes’ HQ, Storm headed for the command center. Its nearly hemispherical dome would allow her to better observe the tempest’s fury. On camera, debris from their fight with the villains roiled in the floodwaters washing down from the crest of hills where the battle had occurred. Reed, Ben, and Johnny watched the floodwaters tearing through the valley. Some of the building’s lower levels were well underwater, but the structure’s integrity was holding up so far. “These unknown alien dudes sure knew how to build giant headquarters,” Johnny Storm said. “Gotta give ’em credit.”
“Yeah,” Ben said. “Next thing you know, it’ll turn itself into an ark and we can just float back to Earth.”
They turned to see Storm coming in, and she nodded. She was not particularly close to any of the three, but she valued them as allies. “I came in to get a look at the weather,” she said. “I could have opened an exterior door, but I didn’t wish to inflict it on anyone else.”
“Manners,” Ben Grimm said. “Not quite dead.”
“Thank you for saying so, Ben,” Storm said. Then she did a double take. “You’re—”
“Yep,” he said. “Flesh and blood. Dunno how it happened. Also dunno if I’ll be any good in a fight now. Funny how when you get what you want, it isn’t always what you want.”
“Perhaps that is a lesson of Battleworld,” Storm suggested.
“Maybe another lesson of Battleworld is you can’t count on your friends to come through when you’re under attack,” Johnny said.
Ororo turned to face him. “Is that an accusation, Johnny? Magneto was in and out of this base practically before we knew of his presence. We were gathered in a distant wing. But if you have already decided to ascribe a certain motivation to our actions, that explanation will not satisfy you.”
“No, I’ll take your word for it,” Johnny said. “But I can’t speak for everyone.”
“Nor would I ask you to. Your candor is appreciated—as is your trust.” Ororo returned to observing the weather and glanced occasionally at the video image of Galactus, who still stood on his mountain peak. The storm did not move him or appear to interest him. Storm would have given a great deal of money to know what he was doing. She would have given even more to eliminate the mistrust that was already tainting the relationships among the displaced heroes.
“Uh-oh,” Johnny said. “Manners may not be dead, but we might.”
Storm checked the monitor to see what he was talking about. Far above them, the storm had sheared off the top of a mountain— either along an ancient fissure, or because the mountain had been weakened by being slammed into this new planet along with dozens or hundreds of other mountain ranges from different worlds. The broken piece was larger than the HQ. It tumbled against the mountain’s flank, slid, then turned over and bounced free.
“It’s heading right for us,” Ben said, his voice rising in alarm. “We don’t stand a chance!” The mountaintop bore down on them.
If only I were outside, Storm thought as she instinctively sprinted for the nearest exit. Maybe there would be something I could do…
But she wouldn’t be able to get there in time.
She stopped in her tracks as something streaked into view on the monitor—like lightning but moving in the wrong direction, at an angle up from the ground. It hit the immense mass of rock and blew it apart with an explosion that sounded loud even against the deafening backdrop of the storm. “Holy—!” Ben stared in amazement as smaller pieces of the mountain thundered down and bounced off the shielding protecting the complex. Some of them broke through, leaving dents and damaged machinery, but nothing like the devastation the intact mountaintop would have caused.
“Who did that?” Johnny wondered aloud.
Storm glanced at Reed Richards. He was looking at her with a half-smile. “It doesn’t take a scientist to figure this out, does it, Reed?”
“If I extrapolate from the available d
ata, Ororo, which is that you are here in front of us,” he said, “then there is really only one other possibility.”
She laughed. “Let me go see if we are correct.”
*
A cylindrical structure set at the back end of the HQ, against the slope of another mountain, towered a hundred meters or more over the main dome and outlying structures. Storm lifted herself to it, riding the wild currents and the ever-present tingle of lightning about to birth itself. What a storm!
Standing atop the tower, arm raised and hair whipping, was exactly who she had expected: Thor. His hammer arced down out of the sky and smacked firmly into his palm as she landed on the tower’s observation platform next to him.
“A fine evening for the likes of us!” he roared. “Not so the poor souls trapped inside.”
“True! And you seem to be making a sport of it,” she called back.
“Sport? You read my mind, Ororo Munroe. You see, I have been competing against myself to see how many rocks I can knock from the sky. It is not a good contest with only one player. But you! You will be a fine challenger.”
“I don’t have a hammer!” she said.
“Surely one such as you needs no such tool!” he answered with a broad grin. “You were born with the powers of weather at your command! Forgive a god for his simpler toys.”
She smirked at him. “All right, we’ll call that even. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The violence of the storm, even apart from the lightning, would have been fatal to most people within minutes. But the thunder god and mistress of the elements had their own ways of handling the extreme meteorological event. Thor threw his head back and roared a greeting to the storm. Lightning blasted down around him as if in answer. Storm flew high above the tower rooftop and hovered, creating a pocket of quiet air. The storm lashed against it with driving rain that had already flooded the valley surrounding their headquarters. More lightning crashed around Storm. She exulted in it. This weather surged through her like nothing she had ever felt on Earth. Her blood was lightning, her heartbeat thunder. This was what she always imagined when a storm on Earth had passed. It was grander, epic in scale and violence.